James Potter And The Morrigan Web (68 page)

“Or trying to stop him!” Lucia suggested, brightening. “I mean, if he looks
that
much like Dumbledore, then he might be good like him, right?”

James avoided answering Lucia’s question. “Either way, this is beyond anything we can handle,” he said, straightening his shoulders and stuffing the newspaper into his pocket. “And that’s why I can’t go back to the castle right now.”

“Why not?” Rose demanded worriedly.

“Because we need help,” James answered. “And there’s no way to ask for it from inside the castle. Every method of communication is monitored by Grudje. If I’m going to get word out to my dad, I need to do it from somewhere else.”

Scorpius nodded reasonably. “So what is your plan?”

James shrugged in frustration. “I don’t know. Back to Hogsmeade, I guess.”

“James,” Rose said warningly. “If you don’t come back with us, Corsica will be sure to report you to Filch.”

“I know!” James proclaimed helplessly. “But I don’t have any choice! Maybe if I hurry I can be back before dinner’s over. I’ll sneak in through the old rotunda, like Comstock and Lucia.”

“Corsica won’t just stop looking for you,” Rose insisted. “She’s itching to nail you with something!”

“I know, Rose!” James pounded his thigh in frustration. “But there’s no other way!”

“He’s right, of course,” Scorpius agreed. “Let it go, Weasley.”

“That’s easy for you to say!” Rose rasped, turning on him.

“It certainly is,” he agreed blandly. “Come on. Hopefully Corsica and the rest will be too distracted by the news of Worlick’s body to notice James’ late return.”

“Finally!” Comstock declared dramatically. Lucia nudged him hard in the ribs with her elbow.

Rose seemed mired in indecision, shifting her gaze from James to Scorpius and back again. Finally, inevitably, she growled her assent. “Fine! But run! Go now! We’ll do what we can.”

James sighed hesitantly. “Thanks. And don’t talk about what we discovered tonight when you get back. Tell them about Worlick’s body, of course, but not the newspaper clipping about the Quidditch summit, or the appearance of Dumble-- er, Professor Avior. Like Professor Longbottom said, there are ears everywhere.”

“You’re still here!” Rose exclaimed, flapping a hand at him. “Go! Go!”

James nodded resolutely. He drew a deep breath, turned toward the path that led back toward Hogsmeade, and began to run.

As James ran along the path back toward Hogsmeade, night settled firmly overhead, reducing the wood to a cathedral of pillar-like tree trunks stretching up into darkness. He did not light his wand for fear of being seen, but strained his eyes to follow the dim path. Wind still hustled busily all around, shifting directions capriciously and drying the sweat even it sprang to his forehead.

He tried not to think about everything that had just happened-- about how Professor Avior
had appeared standing inside the tomb of Albus Dumbledore
, staring out like a vengeful spectre, purposely allowing James (and Lucia) to see him. Why? What was to be gained by deliberately revealing himself? Was he taunting James somehow? Or inviting him into his secret?

Soon enough, the trees thinned and Hogsmeade lay ahead, a collection of steep roofs and crooked chimneys rising against a moonless sky. Windows glowed yellow, flickering with firelight, and James instinctively hung back from them, skulking from shadow to shadow along the narrow streets.

How would he send a message to his father? Surely the Three Broomsticks was still open. Madame Rosemerta happily provided parchment and post services in exchange for a few Knuts (with purchase of a drink, of course), but even she would be suspicious of a Hogwarts student showing up past dark, no matter how many Knuts he spent. The Post Office was a possibility, of course, assuming it was still open. Turning the corner onto the High Street, however, James’ heart sank; the Post Office was dark, its doors shut tight for the night. As he stood staring helplessly at the street a gaggle of noisily cackling old witches bustled out of Madame Puddifoot’s Tea Shop, drawing their shawls around their sloped shoulders and drifting in James’ direction. He ducked into a narrow alley and pressed against the wall, waiting for them to pass. The witches were in no hurry, however, and seemed to stop every few feet to jostle each other amiably and cackle at some indecipherable private joke. Finally, the gathering passed onward, casting a many-headed, shambling shadow along the brick-lined alley floor. A few minutes later the cackling voices fell away to distant echoes.

James peered around the corner of the alley. Voices and music emanated from the entrance of the Three Broomsticks, but for the moment the High Street was empty. James hung back, filled with indecision. Where was he to go? He considered banging on the door of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, but knew it would be no use. The shop was closed and dark. Uncle George had surely Apparated home to Aunt Angelina by now, and Ted would be out and about, doing whatever young men did on a random spring night.

And then James’ eyes alit on the two-story Newsstand leaning crookedly on the corner just past the Three Broomsticks. Perched atop it, a complicated silhouette against the night sky, was the giant news announcer’s funnel and the miniature owlery. Even at a distance, James could see the subtle flutter of news owls in their wire-mesh cubicles. It was a long shot-- the owls were probably trained only for official news business-- but it was the only option available at the moment. As nimbly and quietly as he could, James darted out onto the street and angled toward the Newsstand.

A small brass chain and padlock had been closed over the Newsstand’s wrought-iron stairway. James scurried beneath this and clanked up the narrow stairs to the wraparound balcony. Doors had been closed over the second-story shelves and pay counter. Slipping his wand from his pocket, James tapped the lock over the main counter, attempting an unlocking spell. The lock did not spring open when the spell struck it, but emitted a short, piercingly loud alarm whistle.

James threw himself to the floor of the balcony, hiding as well as he could in plain sight. Fortunately, the brief whistle had coincided with a sudden, raucous scuffle inside the Three Broomsticks. There was a flash of wand-fire in the pub’s low windows, a cacophony of laughter and angry catcalls, and a pair of figures stumbled out of the front door, wands out, grappling into the street. James watched, his heart hammering in his throat. The pair of wizards grunted and cursed each other, both firing spells wildly as they wrestled. One red bolt struck the Newsstand’s signboard, sending it spinning squeakily around its spindle. A moment later, both figures tripped over the curb, toppled onto each other in the gutter, and cried out in surprise and pain. And then, strangely, both of them began to wheeze with laughter. Clumsily, they assisted each other to their feet, their quarrel suddenly forgotten in a slur of apologies and drunken laughter. Hugging each other precariously, they shambled back into the pub, leaving James alone again with his pounding heart.

He scrambled back to his feet, pocketing his wand again. The Newsstand’s locks were obviously protected with some sort of counter-jinx. If Rose was here she could probably get them open regardless. Without her, he had to find another route up to the Newsstand’s third level.

For lack of any other idea, James hoisted himself up onto the protruding lip of the counter and began to climb. Fortunately, he was just thin enough and nimble enough to scrabble for a handhold and clamber up to the third floor walkway, resisting the instinct to look down at the hard cobbles below. The owls in the newsstand’s tiny owlery fluttered their wings and raised the feathered hackles on their foreheads as James shimmied under the railing, panting with exertion and hunkering low beneath the giant broadcasting funnel. Glancing around, he saw the curved desk of the news announcer hulking in the shadow of a canvas awning. His head still spinning with the vertigo of his climb, James skulked toward the desk and began to search through its many drawers and cubbyholes. Soon enough he found a collection of tiny parchment scrolls made to fit the brass tubes on the legs of the news owls. Grabbing a quill, James thought hard for a moment, and then scribbled a note in shaking, cramped handwriting:

Dad: important news about the one that got away! Contact me as soon as possible. Same as last time. I’ll be watching.

He thought for a moment, reading what he’d written. Surely his dad would know who he meant by “the one that got away”, as that could only refer to the escaped prisoner, Worlick. And “same as last time” would mean another appointment via the Gryffindor hearth. As an afterthought, he quickly added:

P.S. Make it you this time! Uncles are great, but you need to hear this!

Unsure if he had made himself clear enough, but worried about trusting too much to a strange owl, James rolled up the tiny scroll and approached the nearest owl. It was a sleek brown owl, much smaller than Nobby, with a sternly pointed head and huge amber eyes. It regarded him with obvious disdain, not proffering its leg.

“This goes to Harry Potter,” James said in a low voice, holding up the scroll. “And it’s extremely urgent.”

The owl merely glared at him.

“Look, I know this isn’t your normal job, but you’re an owl, right? This is what you do. Now stick out your leg and let me--
ow
!”

James had been reaching for the scroll tube on the owl’s leg but yanked his hand back as the owl nipped with its sharp little beak. A faint scratch welled beads of blood across James’ knuckles.

“Look, you stupid, grotty sack of feathers…!” James hissed angrily, but deflated before the owl’s implacable stare. It shuffled languidly on its perch, then, with obvious aloofness, swivelled its head entirely backwards, ignoring him.

James sucked the blood from the back of his hand, thinking hard. Finally, an idea occurred to him. “You know, there’s a major story behind this message,” he said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hush. “Murder and intrigue. That’s headline material, that is.”

The owl did not look back at James, but a distinct alertness crept into its posture. It shuffled on its perch and the hackles on its head ruffled.

“People should know what happened tonight. So far, it’s a secret. But perhaps-- just perhaps-- if you were to deliver this message for me, I could include a special news bulletin just for you. You could take it directly to
the
Daily Prophet
if you wish. A major story like that… well, it could mean great things to a certain news owl.”

The owl swivelled its head back toward James and cocked a sceptical amber eye at him.

“Here,” James hunkered over the news announcer’s desk again and grabbed another scroll. “I’ll write down the details. Major story of murder and mystery…” he scribbled quickly on the tiny parchment. “Who is the victim? Where was he killed? It’s all right here, and you can be the first to report it. But!”

James produced his wand and showed it to the owl, whose interest was obviously piqued. Other owls craned in their mesh cubicles, leaning to listen and peer at the parchment. “But,” James said again, gesturing with his wand, “
only
if you take the other note to Harry Potter first.”

James rolled the new scroll inside the note to his father, and then tapped them both with his wand. “
Hedwig Obscura,
” he said firmly. “That’s a code charm. Makes both notes completely unreadable unless my dad, Harry Potter, performs the decoding charm. Take my note to him, and he’ll decode both. Then, you can take your headline to
the Daily Prophet
. Do we have a deal?”

The owl continued to glare at James sceptically. Finally, it sidled close to him on its perch and stuck out its leg, proffering the tiny brass tube. James heaved a sigh of relief and slipped the scroll into the tube, doing it as quickly as he could in case the owl changed its mind and attempted to scratch him again.

“Go!” James hissed. “If you hurry, you can make it to
the Prophet
before they go to press in the morning. But remember: go to Harry Potter first! Otherwise no one will be able to make any sense of what I wrote.”

The owl rolled its huge eyes, as if to say
I know how to do my job, thank you very much
. It flexed its wings, tested the breeze for a moment, and then launched into the dark air, buffeting James’ hair with the backwash of its tail. A moment later it was gone, vanished against the night sky.

The other owls peered at James with a mixture of grudging anticipation.

“Sorry, mates,” he whispered, sighing deeply. “Only one headline per night.”

He hoped that the news owls did not know how to read. There was no such thing as a
Hedwig Obscura
code hex, of course. He had made it up entirely on the spot. Not that it mattered. The markings on the second parchment were scribbled gibberish. He felt slightly bad about tricking the owl, but this was offset by the satisfaction that he had succeeded in getting a note sent to his father, despite headmaster Grudje’s most careful monitoring.